


ricochet

by marchpng



Category: Lackadaisy (Webcomic)
Genre: and mordecai being petty, pre-canon slice of life, which in this case means a whole lot of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 17:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchpng/pseuds/marchpng
Summary: Most people think Viktor Vasko invincible. Mordecai knows better.





	ricochet

**Author's Note:**

> listen to this smooth ass tune to get into the mood: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fll0cod2t7M  
> it's my first time writing a scene with lots of cats killing each other, so criticism is appreciated. hope y'all enjoy!

There’s a shot, and Viktor falls.

 

Despite knowing that several people would disagree with him, among whom are both his superiors and people he’s been forced to work with, Mordecai has never considered himself particularly petty. In fact, it’s almost easy to take offense to a claim such as that. Is he bound to his principles? Yes. Does he prefer symmetry over the absolute chaos most people leave behind in their genre of work? Yes. As any sane person should. (Though, to be fair, in _their genre of work,_ few people are.) So, in fact, it is not him that’s petty, it’s everybody else that’s wrong, and on top of that, messy.

 

It’s not pettiness he feels as he watches the three-hundred pounds that are his partner collapse. He wouldn’t even call it rage. Maybe a tiny bit of annoyance. Not out of worry for Viktor, but rather because he will now be forced to take care of the other three thugs still strewn across the bar all by himself. And while he’s perfectly capable of murder without any support, having an ox with a rifle as securance isn’t all that bad, that much he’ll admit.

 

It’s irrational, and Mordecai knows better, but part of him still expects Viktor to get up in the split second his mind tries to process what’s just happened. He stares, locates the hole the bullet has left in his back, and turns his attention towards the man who thought it a good idea to draw the anger of Viktor Vasko onto himself. He’s still holding the gun, and is now pointing it at Mordecai.

 

Which, honestly, just won’t do.

 

He ducks the shot meant for his forehead, rolls and lands as safely as momentarily possible behind one of the tilted tables their earlier scuffle left behind. There’s another shot, and it’s close enough to make the ringing in his ears worse, but it doesn’t hit him, which is ultimately what counts. Honestly, it’s almost ridicoulus -- No, it _is_ ridicoulus that Viktor got himself shot in a fight with gangsters as useless as these ones. It was supposed to be an easy mission, take out a few people who were about to betray Atlas May, but shouldn’t make it to the point of executing their little plan. After killing the first few members, Mordecai realized that this isn’t the top of the chain. There’s too little coordination, and none of the thugs were looking to someone for command. Which means that he can’t even kill the rest of their miserable team, if he wants to know who to hunt down next.

 

Or at least not all of them, immediately.

 

He checks his ammunition while gathering his thoughts. Before Viktor was hit, they were about to storm the other two who’d fled to the upper floor. Everybody else downstairs was dead, assumedly so, but apparently Viktor had not hit one of the idiots hard enough with the bloody iron that’s been dropped to the ground right next to his - surprisingly still motionless - body. To believe that it was Mordecai who’d made a mistake, now that was actually an outrage, so he doesn’t go as far as to assume such blunder. Either way, the shaky hands of said sole survivor hadn’t even managed to shoot a man in the back of his head from such a small distance. He’s got to be wounded, bad at aiming, and is probably bleeding out as well.

 

He’d be easy prey -- If he wouldn’t open his damned mouth to call for the other two, kindly informing them that „he’s got the Slovak one“, before Mordecai shoots a bullet through his chest.

 

Momentarily, Mordecai amuses the thought of dragging Viktor out of shooting range, but comes to the conclusion that his partner isn’t the main target anymore after being proclaimed dead by someone who joined that very status of being, right when a bullet flies past his ear, shattering one of the nearby glasses. He has to scramble to reach the safety of the counter, and allows himself to curse under his breath, only because his enemies clearly already know where he’s located.

 

At this point, he’s not only annoyed, but mad, as well. This didn’t go according to plan at all, something he’s always hated, and his driver is bleeding out on the ground two feet away from where he’s taking cover. Maybe he’s dead, too, but that’s highly unlikely, given Viktor’s track record.

 

It takes a second. He takes a deep breath, listens carefully, pulls his gun. One of the goons falls on his back with a bullet in his head, the other stumbles to the side with a yelp, his leg bleeding from where Mordecai’s weapon hit him. Jumping over the counter is easy, almost as easy as grabbing a chair leg that’s been blasted across the room by Viktor’s rifle, conveniently sharp and threatening. He steps on the man’s leg before he can think about starting to crawl.

 

He would probably scream if Mordecai wouldn’t press the sharp tip of the wooden tool into his throat. It’s not enough to kill him, but enough to make him freeze in fear, staring back at Mordecai with nothing to defend himself but his pathetic attempts at a plea.

 

„Who is it you work for?“

 

This type of situation? It isn’t something he particularly _enjoys,_ either. Talking to these people is a necessary task when it comes to gathering information, but Mordecai doesn’t want to make it a habit to hang around desperate folk. Which the man below him is, just as every other person unlucky enough to be stuck on the ground, staring death in the eye. It’s what awaits all of them, and they know it, but somehow still manage to ignore the very fact at the same time. Maybe they’ll get a few more seconds of life, until Mordecai’s got what he needs, or until he’s sick of listening. Still, it ends the same every single time.

 

Tiring.

 

He makes note of the name the man beneath him forces out after another tug with the chair leg, then pushes it forward until the sound of gargling blood stops.

 

Now, to Viktor.

 

To his utter disbelief, the man has the nerve to groan as he pokes him with the tip of his shoe. „You were conscious this entire time? And let me deal with this lowlife _myself_?“

 

Viktor responds in a language Mordecai doesn’t understand, but the pool of blood around him proves that he probably didn’t have much of a say in what lowlife he could have dealt with this evening, anyways.

 

 

...

 

 

At some point, Mordecai wishes he was the one who got shot, if it only meant he wouldn’t have to drag the golem’s weight into their truck. And dragging is exactly what’s happening: Mordecai might be good at murder, but carrying Viktor out of a bar, across a street, and into a car? That’s a lot more difficult than pulling a trigger and living with the emotional turmoil of being a psychopathic killer, as the people like to call him.

 

Suffice to say, if anybody were to look for them right now, the trail of blood Viktor leaves behind would be more than enough of a lead.

 

When they arrive at Mordecai’s apartment instead of the cafe, it’s mostly because Mordecai is concerned with Viktor bleeding out in the passenger’s seat. If anybody were to ask him, it’s because of the stains that’d leave behind in the fabric, but there’s nobody here but the source of his problems. By now, said source is aware enough to take the few steps through the door and onto the nearest couch, Mordecai’s jacket pressed against the wound that seems to be a lot less fatal than originally thought.

 

The bullet went through, leaving a flesh wound that does bleed a lot, (onto his carpet, too -- Viktor better pay for every precious item he’s damaged until now!) but ultimately shouldn’t kill him. It’s beneath Mordecai to call it a relief, given that they’re professional partners, put together by Atlas because the most damaged goods apparently belong with each other, and nothing else. Still, there might be something similar to that stuck in his throat, a breath he only releases when the horse doctor steps through the door, examines what’s left of Viktor’s side, and bandages him up.

 

Mordecai is left with an ox who’s incapable of getting out of his apartment anytime soon, and the instructions of a doctor who shouldn’t touch any living creature around, but is the only one wrapped up in their dirty business.

 

He sighs, and rolls his sleeves back.

 

 

...

 

 

„Last time you get shot,“ Viktor proclaims, with a slight slur and enough gesturing to reassure Mordecai of his recovery, „I carry you through door like princess.“ Which, in Mordecai’s opinion, is nothing but an exaggeration. He was _not_ carried through the door like a princess. If they were to be exact, he was carried through the door like the wife of a freshly wed couple, mostly because his left leg was refusing to work due to some bone poking out. And can he really be blamed for that?

 

Yes. Most likely.

 

„That is low even for you, Viktor. Could you not use the shortcomings in my early career as a softener for your own failure today?“ He’d like to think he appears as dominant as he tries to make his tone sound, but that effect might be dimmed by his kneeling on the carpet, trying to get rid of the blood stains with warm milk. That’s the part none of the criminal novels tell you about. You have to handle a lot more bloodied clothes than you think when you start the job. Though, he supposes, if said authors had that much information, they wouldn’t be authors at all.

 

Either way, Viktor isn’t happy with his reply. If he ever is. He grumbles something inaudible Mordecai doesn’t bother to figure out, and sinks deeper into the couch. „Next time you get shot, I leave you there to die.“

 

„Well, now you’re just lying.“

 

„Watch you bleed out, too.“

 

„How _charming._ Though, I probably should not expect better of you.“

 

There’s silence, then, and Mordecai isn’t sure if it’s because Viktor is done with the conversation, or if he’s just spacing out due to blood loss. He’s going to be dizzy for at least the rest of the night. And next day. Incapable of working for the rest of the week, physically speaking. He’s seen Viktor’s stubbornness overcome a lot less than this in a lot less time, though. And in that particular matter, Mordecai’s come to expect the unexpected. You could chop off one of Viktor’s arms and he’d be back on the road in no time.

 

Earlier in their partnership, Mordecai’s tried to come up with a kind of injury he couldn’t move past that easily. He’s come to the conclusion that rendering him immobile would be the way to go. A leg, maybe. A knee could work, too. Not as messy as getting rid of a whole limb. And if there’s anything Mordecai _isn’t_ known for, it’s messiness.

 

He lets the silence settle between them until the carpet looks acceptable. His jacket isn’t something that can be repaired right this instant, given that it was the only thing in reach to stuff it into the hole of Viktor’s body. And with nothing else to do, the tiredness suddenly reaches him. At this point, he’s mostly convinced his partner’s going to survive the night, but he’d rather be sure than account for the death of Viktor Vasko on a guess. So, instead of heading straight for the bedroom, he positions a few of his pillows next to the couch, creating something that somehow resembles a mattress.

 

Maybe it’s curiousity that makes Viktor speak up again, or maybe it’s the talking that makes him feel more alive than he’s probably been feeling for the last few hours. „You not go to bed?“

 

Mordecai scoffs while contemplaiting whether to wear his pyjamas or not. „You think I would leave you alone in _any_ room of my apartment? I politely decline. Who knows what else you would touch - and immediately ruin - with your bloody claws.“

 

„Been here before,“ Viktor grumbles, and manages to destroy Mordecai’s argument with nothing more than three words. Again.

 

„Well, yes, but you haven’t been this pathetic before. Now, if you would excuse me,“ There’s a shuffling and adjusting as he tries to get comfortable in his street clothes, under a cover that’s not nearly as sufficient as his actual blanket in his actual bedroom, and on the ground, no less. „I’d like to get at least a few hours of sleep before we have to report to Atlas.“

 

„You not do that already?“

 

„I called him, but I was a bit pre-occupied, given your situation.“

 

„Is no situation. Will be healed by tomorrow.“

 

„We’ll see.“

 

Obviously, Mordecai doesn’t sleep. He can’t see Viktor from down here, and in hindsight, sleeping right next to the couch was tactically illogical, as well. What if the golem rolls off the damned thing accidentally? That’ll probably kill the both of them. What a treasure. Two highly skilled mobsters, murdering each other without intending to. His train of thought continues to spiral, and if it’s surprising that he eventually shifts away from the couch, it’s even more surprising that Mordecai’s attempt at saving himself from death-by-Slovak is interrupted by said Slovak.

 

“... Mordecai.“

 

„What?“

 

And there’s a pause, one that makes Mordecai wonder if Viktor passed out before he could finish his sentence. Or if he only wanted to know whether Mordecai is actually sleeping or not. A heartbeat, and then --

 

„Thank you. Saved life today.“

 

And if that isn’t moving. Or, it would be, if Mordecai wouldn’t be absolutely stunned. Maybe a little unsettled, as well. Gratitude, from Viktor? He lost more blood than it is good for him.

 

„Yes,“ he presses out, and now, knowing that Viktor is too dizzy to understand him properly is a relief. „Well, yes, I did. But it’s the job, Viktor. Just the job.“ And before his partner can say anything else that makes things unprofessionally close between them, he adds a quick, „Maybe don’t get yourself shot like an idiot next time we’re out, so I won’t have to do it again.“

 

Mordecai drowns the reply out.

 

 

...

 

 

„And you’re sure you’re okay to work again?,“ Atlas May asks, more out of caution than out of worry, a fact that’s obvious to all three of them.

 

„Ya. Am okay.“ Viktor isn’t glaring, but he’s doing something similar to that. Scowling, maybe? And looming, over the both of them, something Mordecai has never been fond of.

 

It’s not his business, but if he were Atlas May, he would wait two or three days more. Until Viktor has to stop wearing bandages, or until he can turn around without growling like some monster that’s crawling out of a cave. It’s also an obvious fact that, despite his efforts to cover it up, the wound is getting to Viktor, which ultimately means it’s getting to his skills as a hitman. Then again, though, Mordecai isn’t Atlas May. He’s some rat the man gathered up from the slums, awfully good at killing people without feeling bad about it, which is what got him here, next to the Slovak equivilant of a tank. Or, more appropriately, a tank that’s missing one of its tires.

 

He’s lucky Viktor can’t read his thoughts at times.

 

Atlas May lets them go. Off to stop the leader of the little group they killed in the bar. If Mordecai isn’t sure of Viktor’s health, he’s at least sure of his rage. Now that he’s somehow personally involved, or at least physically affected, he’s going to make damn sure everybody in the building is beaten to a bloody pulp, and if that doesn’t reassure him, nothing in this world could.

 

When they get into the car and Viktor fails to hide a low hiss at the bent of his side, Mordecai merely glances at him. His partner gets the message.

 

„I’m not dragging you to my apartment again, I hope you’re aware of that. Sleeping on the ground has left me uncomfortably sore.“

 

He’s not looking directly at Viktor as he says it, but he can still catch a glimpse of his grin out of the corner of his eye. His throat rumbles, and there’s amusement evident on his features, which doesn’t happen often. „Next time I get shot, you leave me there to die.“

 

Mordecai can’t help but return the smile.

 

„Watch you bleed out, too.“


End file.
